Even a Friend is not this Familiar

I had read some time ago that Indians (I think we can infer Sub-Continentals here) can get extremely familiar without being friendly - and two recent incidents highlighted exactly what that meant.

The Cobbler

You know by now that I am not a DIY person and this extends to polishing my shoes as well. In the past I used Kiwi roll-on polishes, which though very convenient, ruined the leather on my shoes rather rapidly. Hence over the last few years I have started to take my leather shoes into town, to get them polished by a cobbler. They do it the old fashioned way, do it much better AND my shoes last longer as well.

I used to frequent this Afghani cobbler who was irritating and funny at the same time. If I forgot to fix the price with him before he started his work, it would land up in a haggling contest. He would insist on charging me four times the asking rate, stating that he used special polish and extra effort. I would never pay him that of course, but I would get dragged into a conversation that I would rather not get into and often resulted in me paying him more, especially if I did not have the exact change. Anyway, tired of this uncertainty I found another cobbler of similar origin but pleasanter demeanor, who I have been going to for a year or so.

That is the background on the artisan. Now the shoes!

I had bought a pair of rather expensive leather moccasins years ago - but every time I tried to wear them - I would get the most terrible chaffing on the skin near my Achilles tendon. Hence they have been lying unused and forgotten until I chanced to see them a month ago. It pains me when I cannot use something I have bought - and it dawned on me that I should take them to the cobbler and see if he could treat and soften them or something. So the next time I went to the cobber I took them along.

When I explained my problem to the cobbler, he took a look at my shoes, felt them around the area that used to chaff and then put one on his anvil and started hammering the s**t out of it. He explained that that softens the leather, though both my wife and I were aghast at the treatment being meted out to these expensive shoes. After going at it with both of them, he does something that I can't forget. He gets up, takes off his slippers, puts MY shoes on and then walks around in them. HE IS WEARING MY SHOES AND WALKING AROUND ON THE STREET!  Picture a man in a Pathan Suit walking around in black ECCO moccasins in Bur Dubai! My wife and I could only look at each other - completely horrified.

With complete insouciance, he then took them off and handed them back to me, saying that they should now be alright. He added that if for some reason they still chaffed, to bring them back to him. AS IF!!!

I have still not ventured to try them on and see if his remedy worked.

The Barber.

An even more interesting episode was with a barber that we (my son and I) had been frequenting - again in Bur Dubai. By the way, this was my way of teaching my son the value of money - going to the cheapest barbers for a haircut. The horror stories with my son's haircuts will be for another blog. No wonder that he hates a haircut as much as I do!

Anyway I was alone that time and being in the vicinity I thought I might as well get a trim. My hair was well past the time when it required one as I had been postponing the cut too long.

I entered the saloon and as my regular guy was busy, a young gun attended to me. Normally after finishing with the haircut comes the most horrendous part - when they spray your face with water and use a smelly old towel to wipe your face dry. I absolutely insist on them using tissues, but sometimes if I am not quick enough, with my eyes still closed from the sprayed water, the towel comes into play. It is whipped up and around you in such a manner that it encapsulates your face completely. My normal instinct is to hold my breath when the water is sprayed on to my face, so I am completely out of breath by the time the towel appears. That situation leaves me with no choice but to take a deep breath while still being smothered in it. The smelly residue of that experience stays in my olfactory memory long after I have left the establishment.

This time I was quick and I stopped him just before the towel made contact with my face. After dabbing me with tissues, he looked at my face and then asked gently if I would like my eyebrows trimmed. I still had the obligatory head and shoulder massage coming up, so I thought to myself - why not. This is awful nice of the guy - I told myself! My eyebrows have an independent disposition, with each hair even more free spirited. After a few months it is difficult to discipline them as they start straying in all directions. 

So I said yes and relaxed back into the seat as the massage began. Soon the thrum of the generator strapped on to his wrist lulled me and I was completely relaxed by the time it was my eyebrows' turn. In this languid state I shut my eyes as he brought the scissors up to snip away. I could feel him snipping away gently and relaxed even further back in the seat.

Suddenly I felt my nose being pushed and thrust up by his thumb and before I can even think "hold it" he has inserted a scissor up my nose and is busy snipping away in the inner recesses of my nostril. He had apparently taken a unilateral decision to prune my nose-hair as well - a treatment that was neither agreed on nor appreciated. It was a gross violation of my personal space. As I opened my eyes to see what the heck was going on, I noticed that he was using the 'same' scissors! If this was part and parcel of their customer value proposition - God alone knew where the scissor had been before it touched my hair. I was completely paralyzed with shock as he finished with one and descended into the second nostril.

That day all other errands were forgotten as I rushed home to deep cleanse my hair, my scalp and every other part of my body!

The Conclusion

I still frequent the same cobbler, though now having 'literally' walked in my shoes, he feels like we are old pals. He never forgets to ask about the well-being of my moccasins (as if they were distant relatives).

I never returned to the barber shop, though I generally wave to them when I am passing by and they happen to see me.